Unmasked- Act 2- Issue 10- Dr Quinzel, Medicine Woman
by Thedude2222
Summary: A Gotham novel detailing the end of the legend of Batman.


Issue 21:

Dr. Quinzel, Medicine Woman

"Kites?" Harleen Quinzel asked twirling a strand of thick blonde hair that slipped from her ponytail. Sitting cross legged in a plush chair next to a large desk in her office she took notes on a white legal pad. With her thin lensed frames she referred to as her church lady glasses Harley wore a white doctor's coat over her bright blue blouse and form fitting black slacks. Matching blue heels completed her ensemble.

On the couch against the wall Chuck Brown sat up straight with his elbows resting on his knees staring at the toes of his faded sneakers. No gaudy costumes were allowed so Chuck like everyone else wore their civilian clothes. Chuck sported boot cut jeans and a baggy grey sweatshirt.

"Patient declines any offer of comfort," she wrote in her notes, "refuses to recline on couch or drink water provided. Body language suggests tension and possible anxiety."

"Yeah kites. I guess nowadays it's pretty lame and gimmicky. They got jetpacks now," Chuck admitted but Harley shook her head.

"We're not here to make those kinds of judgments. We examine everything at face value here but-" she put a hand to the side of her mouth like she was revealing a secret, "I always liked kites too." A genuine smile naively crossed Chuck's face and he immediately babble on about the best brands and designs. He told her about the most knowledgeable hobby shops in Gotham and his own experimental designs. Politely Harley nodded and smiled cursing herself inside for injecting personal opinion into the session no matter how positive.

"Let's talk about where you think that enthusiasm comes from," she suggested kindly. Chuck Brown was a super criminal of old logically named Kiteman. Strictly a small time crook Chuck glided through the night sky during a time when the underworld scene was a little campier and certainly more forgiving.

"I'm honestly not really sure, doctor. Nothing specific at least I just always loved them since I was a little kid. Whenever I see them or fly them I get excited. My heart races and I feel a little dizzy looking up at them, but it's not just physical. Sometimes they get me excited…sexually," he whispered that last word and blushed, "It's something Dr. Crane was helping me with."  
"That's nothing to be ashamed of, Chuck. Everyone has things they like. That's not even the weirdest one I've heard today. I could tell you about kinks-" Harley caught herself and cleared her throat dropping back into professional mode, "but that's confidential. So I think this was a great preliminary discussion. There are clearly things we can work on together. I'd like to start you on a once a week schedule and see how things go from there."

"I'd very much appreciate that, doctor," Chuck replied standing and shaking her hand cordially.

"You can set up your next appointment with my secretary outside," Harley said and moved to sit behind her desk before her next client. She looked up at the Batgirl costume that hung on her back wall. Although she rarely got the chance to wear it she kept it close to her during her real work.

After the meeting that seemed so long ago Robin asked her to set up a new clinic after the destruction of Crane's place. No secret experiments or shady dealings he wanted a safe place where his army could go for counseling. No one could relate to and treat them like she could he seemed to think. At first she felt reticent to try but quickly agreed once he introduced her to a few people in need. Harley soon found more than a few and now her office bustled with criminals big and small.

"Secretary, what's going on out there?" she asked through the intercom as a commotion in the hallway interrupted her thoughts.

"Oi nuttin', missis. Nuttin' et awl jus' a bittah schedulin' mixups awl. Mistah Toad'll ahver fixed in a roight tic," the intercom replied. Mr. Toad was assigned by Professor Pyg to handle her administrative tasks in the clinic. In fact the professor positively insisted upon it when he heard about Harley's attempts to better the community.

Despite his unquestioning submission to authority Mr. Toad proved a kind and gentle soul. However his personal issues with identities left Harley unsure where to begin on his diagnosis much less treatment. For now he seemed happy enough to serve as her personal assistant constantly exclaiming how much prettier she was than his old boss. Harley took the compliments in good humor.

"Send in my next appointment please," Harley requested. As the door opened she heard yelling from someone who seemed to be exiting the office.

"You haven't heard the last of me, you slimy shit," a man called vengefully, "I'll have my revenge yet just you wait and see!"

"Boy, old Holiday is fired up today," the rail thin man entering the room commented. This man was Ray Howard a villain known as the Tallyman.

"Morning, Ray," she greeted as he stretched his long legs down the couch.

"How's things?"

"We're getting along fine. Was everything okay out there?" she asked nonchalantly.

"Seems Holiday got his days of the week mixed up and accused Mr. Toad of screwing up the schedule. When we corrected him that it was actually Thursday he accused Mr. Toad of stealing Wednesday. Personally I'm not sure how somebody could even do that," Ray speculated, "I think he's losing it." Ray's fingers clenched and released as he counted to himself.

"And how are things with you?" Harley asked returning to her chair and motioning towards his spastic hands.

"Some days it's good and other days it's like the medicine makes me stupid," Ray explained.

"We can try backing off the dosage a bit. So looking back on last week it seems we ended talking about how you see the world in numbers," she said looking back through her notes.

"Arithmomania you called it? I remember. Out in public is always the worst because there's too much to keep track of. Plus it gets confusing.

"Can you give me an example of a time you felt it was too confusing?"

"Oh definitely," Ray agreed, "so the other day I'm at Gotham Park and there's a kid on the carousel, just a little guy. He gets off the horse and his dad buys him ice cream, but when he goes to take a bite he drops his scoop out of his cone into the grass.

He fuckin' LOSES it right? Kicking, crying, snotting like a gooey fountain. His dad picks him up and is clearly like forget the ice cream. I've got to get this kid home, so they quickly leave." Ray stopped like he was waiting on her opinion of the situation.

"What about the kid did you find confusing?" Harley encouraged him to elaborate. Ray shook his head in disbelief.

"Well what's the end product of that scenario? Are the carousel and the lost ice cream one positive and one negative respectively or is the carousel worth more like two or three? It lasted longer than the momentary loss of the ice cream. Does his dad's consolation count as a plus or was his lack of replacement ice cream a minus? There are too many branching trees to measure it all."

"Why is measuring something like that important to you?" she pondered.

"Because you have to know where you stand, doc. Here's another brain buster that screwed me up for days. I'm down on the subway platform waiting on a train and there's a guy, a gentleman of the hobo variety let's say. He's sitting up against the wall minding his own business while he's got a literal spread of food from Bastion Fromage. It's this high class restaurant across from the Loeb Performing Arts Center.

I saw the logo on the bag and this isn't the kind of place that does takeout. Now let's put aside the question of how he came in possession of food from a place where I can't afford to use the bathroom. Let's assume someone gave it to him. It can't be as simple as positive points for someone buying dinner for the needy. It's definitely more complicated than that.

Does someone end up in the negative for spending hundreds of dollars on food for a single meal? Is that Good Samaritan to blame for not buying peanut butter and other nonperishables? Think of how long that bum could live off of hundreds of dollars of reasonable food! Maybe the restaurant is to blame for selling a two hundred dollar steak in a society that has people starving right outside their door.

Does some of it fall on me because I walked by and didn't offer to help him? In my defense he looked pretty well set up with the lobster bisque. I about asked if I could join him. What about the bum himself? He's gotten off scot free in this witch hunt so far. What kind of token does he hold against the lot of his own life?

He seemed capable of work so maybe it was only a natural aversion that kept him away. Even measuring it all isn't the worst part because you know they don't have scales for this shit. The worst part is nobody even seems to care. Nobody else counts it! That's what tears me up on an every day basis."  
"You know I totally see why I have fifteen pages of notes from last week," Harley mumbled to herself, "Ray, I think the problem we're running into is the futility of trying to reduce the world to positive and negative integers. The world is way bigger and more complicated than that."

"You're wrong," Ray insisted confidently, "Not only are you wrong but I can scientifically prove it to you right now."

"By all means," Harley invited sincerely.

"The pencil in your hand or this table in front of me," Ray ran his hand over the smooth wood and rapped it once, "Feels hard, sounds hard too but in reality these things are built of matter packed into organized rows and clusters we call atoms. They join or repel through simple and sometimes complicated positive and negative charges.

The feeling you identify with the word solid is in fact the tight formation of atoms repelling your hand. They say, 'Sorry no room for you in here.' In a glass of water the molecules have room so they let your finger in. 'Oh yeah come on in, buddy. We'll make it work,' they say." Ray imitated the water while pretended to be crushed under a large finger. Harley giggled.

"All right, I buy your premise. I was wrong," Harley admitted, "but what does any of that have to do with killing people?"

"If everyone has a number, a positive or negative worth, then some would be givers and other takers. I just figure out who owes and collect on their debts, hence the Tallyman."

"It's relatively simple compared to some cases and it logically follows. However none of this addresses why you're here," she explained, "If you take a beginner's course in something like psychology or especially mental illness and addiction, any good professor will open the first lecture with a warning.

They say don't go looking for yourself in your textbook because you'll find yourself in there. Everyone has an issue or compulsion they directly relate to but simply identifying a problem doesn't necessarily mean you're ill. Mental illness is measured by quality not quantity.

It's measured by how much a compulsion affects the quality of your life. Does it consistently keep you from happiness and living life in the way you want? Through multiple sessions we've had I think we can agree your counting does just that, so that's why we need to work on it. The question then becomes why do you have to be the Tallyman? Why do you have to be the one who counts?"

"So I can keep the cosmic game board in the black. So-so I can look at it and know there's going to be enough to go around for everyone," Ray claimed.

"Can you elaborate on that for me?" she coaxed gently.

"My father was a taker. He owed so much money the mob eventually killed him for it. We had nothing once he died but then they came to my mother. I begged her to tell them no. I told her it was his debt not ours but she continued to pay what she could.

We went hungry so often but she taught me a debt is a debt that can never go away. It's a responsibility shared on a global scale never to be written off, never forgotten. So I decided to kill the takers for those who will unfairly inherit their debts. Maybe the day will come that no one ever wants again but only if I can figure out the correct measurement. I don't explain it very well I know but-"

"No Ray," she stopped him, "I understand…as much as I can. So many times with people who walk through that door it's their past they carry like a cross especially from childhood. When we're young we're so helpless and often faced with a world we can't change at the time." Harley's clock chimed indicating the session had run its course.

"This severe lack you experienced growing up needs to be our focus going on with our therapy. I want you to think about that this week until our next meeting and of course continue silently counting in your head if you have to at all."

"I will," Ray promised as he rose and shook her hand, "It hasn't been easy but I'm starting to see a light at the end of the tunnel. And there's just no way to thank you enough for that, doctor." Stoically Harley nodded and wrapped both hands around his.

"It's a process and it takes a long time. I know we can do it though. We just can't give up," she assured.

After Ray left Mr. Toad brought lunch in for her from the fancy bistro up the street. As usual he dressed in his Flash costume that he insisted wearing while he worked at the clinic. Mr. Toad came up with the idea after seeing Harley's Batgirl costume hanging in her office. So one day after work she introduced him to the internet where he shopped for a proper costume as he put it. The next day a package arrived, a one piece Flash costume that he crammed into complete with small wings attached to the head covering.

As she stared at him setting up the food she curiously wondered if it was a real suit or a set of footie pajamas. Harley then noticed he had no lunch as she uncovered the giant salad in front of her. When she asked why Mr. Toad explained his allowance from the professor was burned up on his stripper "girlfriend" downtown.

Every night she demanded he show up at the club to tip her while she danced. This week she needed a special pair of earrings for a date over the weekend that wasn't with him. Apparently he couldn't say no as he remained captivated by the beautiful woman.

"How come you let her take all your money?" Harley asked as she divided out half her salad on a plate for him.

"Well, Missah Toad in't exackly 'ansom now is 'ee? Where else 'ee gonnuh spy a roight pre'ey gurl like 'at?"

"Probably the internet?"

"Tha' puter box shoppin' game? Ya mean et dus more'n sellin' costumes? Tha professah he don' like Missah Toad messin' bout on 'er."

"Instead of searching for super hero costumes, try searching pretty girls. You might be surprised," Harley suggested.

"Missah Toad'll give 'er a shot, missus. Wanna 'ear tha affernoon line up, 'en?" he mumbled munching away at the greens.

"Sure."

"We gor' Abattoir then Fright and ol' Clayface tah wrap up 'er day," he read off his carefully maintained schedule sheet. Harley nodded and they continued their lunch together. Although she discouraged the use of aliases or personas during therapy she recognized Mr. Toad's struggle with identities. Only after a long acquaintance with someone did he begin to associate that person with their given name.

This more than any other problem Mr. Toad presented gave Harley the most pause. Where so many others might have passingly recognized another goofy henchman Harley saw something deeper in him. There was a certain childlike naiveté about him. Harley made regular phone calls to Professor Pyg about the past trauma and hardship Mr. Toad had weathered.

Over time she learned quite a bit about her employee from Lazlo who wanted to see his friend get some help. That was why he sent Mr. Toad to her from the beginning. Still she felt uncharacteristically nervous about beginning his treatment. Mr. Toad was a fragile soul who somehow rebuilt his identity after a series of shattering tragedies, and Harley wasn't eager to tear down that identity by dredging up a past he already escaped once.

"Ol' Professah 'ees uh roight fine mate 'ee is," Mr. Toad proclaimed when the subject of Lazlo arose, "Ee saved Missah Toad uh hunnert times 'oer. On'y fair we 'elp 'im out bess we ken. Thing 'bout uh Professah tho is somutha time 'ee bites of more'n 'ee ken chew, eh?"

"I think we all know that feeling right about now," Harley agreed pushing the onions to the side of her plate.

The beginning of the afternoon she spent with Abattoir who bored her with stories of grisly fantasy versus the reality and logistical nightmares that came with serial killing. Of all her patients Harley found the psycho killers the easiest to deal with due to years of experience.

Nearly every one of them was a person looking for someone to punish them in the same way they punished others. Absolutely none carried the flair and style as her long time significant other so she was rarely surprised at their behavior. After Abattoir came Linda Friitawa a relatively new patient to the clinic who worked under the alias Fright.

"I don't really belong here," Linda admitted guiltily.

"Why would you say that?" Harley asked as they settled in for the session.

"I've seen the guys come in and out of here, guys with serious issues. I'm not a broken person like them. I get by pretty well. It just gets hard sometimes and it's nice to have someone to talk it out with."

"That's all we're here for Linda, but we're here for everyone. You don't have to suffer from a debilitating psychosis to come in here and talk to me. I wish everyone would. Some people feel too proud to admit they might need a sympathetic ear," Harley relayed sadly.

"It just feels wrong to complain after the life I had. My childhood was as perfect as you could get. My mother and father were great people but more than that they genuinely loved each other and us. Most people in the world never know the happiness I've had. I was so ignorant to what the world really was, and the day I learned I just…couldn't take it."

"Do you think we could talk about that experience?"

"Sure I guess. I have a little brother about three years younger than me. He was a star at baseball. So much so that when I'd meet people they'd say, 'Oh you're Tanner's sister.' I read a lot when I was a kid and never got too much into sports. I was extremely independent though. Always wanted to do everything by myself and my parents rarely discouraged me unless it was something dangerous.

Anyway I was probably six when my parents celebrated their tenth wedding anniversary. It was a really special night for them and my dad booked the penthouse suite in some swanky Gotham hotel with some French sounding name. I remember being so excited that my brother and I got to go. We rarely visited Gotham as we lived in the suburbs, sheltered you could say. I remember the city lights were so bright and colorful

It was like a whole new world and so…big is the only word to describe it when you're that small. So the hotel was beautiful and in the penthouse I was floored. There were two bedroom areas attached by a huge living room. A gigantic bed each for my brother and I while my parents stayed on the other side of the suite in the master bedroom.

After dinner we got back to the room and they told us we could stay up and watch TV just not too loud. The hotel brought them up a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice and it looked so fancy. My brother and I spent a lot of time looking out the window at the incredible view. I just remember being so happy for my mom and dad and wanting to make sure they had a nice night."  
"It didn't turn out that way," Harley posited.

"No. I eventually found an ice bucket that was empty and decided I needed to fill it up for whatever stupid reason. My brother refused to stay behind and I didn't want to interrupt our parents so we snuck out of the suite. For some reason we either couldn't find the dispenser on that level or it was out of order maybe. It's funny how some things are so fuzzy and others just don't fade away.

Regardless I decided we should go down a floor or two to get it. After all I knew how to get back and we were smart enough to remember the key. So we hopped in the elevator and went down. The first thing I remember when those doors opened was the screaming. It was high pitched, terrified.

Then through the open doors we saw people down the hall outside the door to their room, two women and a man. The man stood over one of the women holding her up by her shirt hitting her over and over. The other woman hung on his back trying to hold back his arm and screaming.

'Stop! Stop hitting her!' she screamed but the guy didn't seem to care at all. The woman on the ground had blood running across her face and seemed dazed. Nothing, nothing in our lives prepared us for that scene. We weren't allowed to watch violent TV shows or movies but here it was larger than life. Immediately I knew how big of a mistake I'd made and my brother…so little. He turned to me and asked.

'What are they doing?' but I had no answer. I don't think anyone did. At that moment all three stopped and looked down the hall frozen like a photograph. That was my moment to stop it, to step out and tell this man he was wrong, to save them. My brother remained gripping my hand tightly.

I was caught between helping these women who were in trouble and shattering the innocence of my little brother. Stupidly I thought if I pretended nothing was wrong it might shield him from the shortcomings of this world I now saw clearly. After a moment the bloodied woman screamed.

'Get the fuck out of here!' But she didn't look angry. In fact I didn't have a word in my vocabulary to describe how she looked. Eventually with all the reading I learned the definition of the word martyr. I couldn't help but think of my parents and how it would ruin their night and police and this evil man in front of me. That was when I did something I'll always regret. I pushed another button and the elevator door closed. The rest of the night is a blur but we got back into the room unnoticed.

We never told our parents and my brother never cried though I suspected he knew something bad had happened. We went to sleep that night and never talked about it. I never told anyone and forgot, or rather repressed it I guess, until I was fourteen or fifteen. When I remembered I felt so ashamed and I have ever since. On some visit home from college my brother had just graduated high school and I mentioned it to him when we were alone, asked him if he remembered.

'Oh god…yeah,' he said and there was this look of pain on his face. I don't think he ever would have remembered if I hadn't brought it up. That made me feel even worse that I had to bring him back to it to make sure I wasn't crazy just like I had the first time. But I already know what you'll say and you're right. 'You were just a kid. You can't blame yourself for being scared or trying to protect your brother.' It doesn't solve anything though.

That pain has never gone away and I don't think it ever will. Don't you wish you could fix things or at least get a chance to do one thing differently? That if you could change it you might be a better person and have a happier life."  
"I do wish that," Harley answered somberly, "but all we can do is focus on the present and proceed from there. We have to make a conscious effort every day to change what needs to be changed. What happened to you was terrible. I'm sorry, Linda."

"Thanks, this has been a little too much for me today. Do you think we could stop?"

"You got it. Come back soon whenever you need to talk," Harley invited thanking her, "You know now's your chance to change things." Linda nodded and headed for the door. As it closed behind her Harley heard a scream from the lobby. Then Mr. Toad's voice rang out angrily.

"Listen 'eer we tol' yah once. You goh 'er messed up'n-" he stopped abruptly and there was a pause then his anger turned into a fearful shout.

"Mother 'ave mercy, 'ees gor ah fookin' bomb!" It was clear they were under attack so Harley did the only thing applicable in such a situation. She took off her pants.

In the lobby Linda, Mr. Toad, and Basil Karlo, more widely known as Clayface, stood against the wall horrified. Alberto Falcone the villain called Holiday stood in the middle of the waiting room with a belt of dynamite strapped to his waist and a detonator in hand. Earlier in the day he arrived for his Wednesday appointment only to find he missed it as today was in fact Thursday. Outraged at the thought of a calendar obsessed man like himself forgetting a day Alberto vowed revenge. Now he was clearly ready to make good on that threat.

"I told you I'd be back, you frog freak. Thought you could put one over on me?" he demanded wild eyed behind his old fashioned spectacles. His finger hovered dangerously over the detonator.

"Ah don' give ah good shite, yah cheeky coont. You missed yer 'pointment nor ah Missah Toad. Ourra be ashamedah yersef tretnin' ah bloody clinic," Mr. Toad bravely stated before ducking back behind Linda.

"Shut up! I don't have to listen to you. I want to see the doctor right now. I won't be put aside. Now either I get my session or I blow us all up," Alberto whined like the spoiled child he was.

"Please sir," Linda begged earnestly, "this is a home for healing. Violence has no place here. I'm sure the doctor-" Before she could finish the office door slammed open and Harley stood for a moment looking fabulous in her Batgirl costume. Then she saw Alberto and a scowl crossed her face. Growling she sprung at the man who tried to explain.

"Doctor please, I must speak with you," he cried but Harley struck his wrist disarming the detonator. The small device slid across the floor under a chair as Harley punched Alberto across the face. Now Alberto sprawled on the floor blubbering and begging. When Harley came at him again he kicked out and put a shoe into her stomach. With the wind knocked out of her she fell to her knees as Alberto crawled away towards the detonator.

"Oi Batgirl!" Mr. Toad cried leaping into action. Swiftly but not quite as quick as Flash, Mr. Toad hopped over their attacker and snatched up the device. Now he faced the room as Alberto and Harley both stood in front of him. There was a look of panic in his eyes.

"Back up yah wankers or Missah Toad'll blow 'is whole placetuh 'ell, 'ee will!" Mr. Toad demanded viciously.

"Mister Toad!" Harley exclaimed with shock and outrage. That seemed to bring him back to his senses and sheepishly he handed her the detonator.

"We's jus' foolin' aroun' 'err, missus. Good ol' Missah Toad wud'n 'urt uh flea, 'ee wud'n," he explained staring at the floor in shame. Suspiciously Harley glared at him for a moment before turning to Alberto.

"Not that it would have mattered, right Skippy?" she prodded Alberto and pushed the button on the detonator. Mr. Toad's eyes went wide and round and a scream that sounded like it should have come from Linda actually came from Basil. Nothing happened. No explosion destroyed them all.

"Fake dynamite?" Harley began yelling, "Do you know who I live with? Every damn day it's fake dynamite in my cereal, the shower, the couch cushions, and my pillow. I can spot it in a quarter of a second!" She dragged Alberto towards the door by his collar and chucked him down the steps.

"It's the real stuff you have to look out for," she called down to him, "Now you be back on Wednesday bright and early and ready to talk about your fucking problems!" Alberto hobbled off down the street as quickly as he could. Harley turned towards the freed hostages who still stared at her silently.

"Who's next?" she asked softly. Clayface shifted back and forth as his fingers melted leaving brown stains all over the rug.

"I may need two hours after that, doctor. I've been blown up one too many times," Basil moaned.

"Let's get started then," Harley surrendered.

That night after dropping Mr. Toad off at Lazlo's, Harley trudged through the back door of their hideout carrying bags of groceries. The dilapidated house they currently inhabited was a disaster. Trash littered every hallway and room. Gently she sat the bags on the counter next to the stove that held a dead animal of some sort on the burner. It was impossible to identify due to the charring and burnt hair.

Curiously she heard no firecrackers or laughing or screaming so she waded through the trash looking for him. Joker sat in the bathtub naked covered to the stomach with unfolded newspapers. With a handful of papers in his hand he read intently until he noticed her in the doorway and swiftly stuffed them into the tub.

"Hello darling, how was your day?" he asked brightly.

"Long puddin'," she replied, "What were you doing?"

"Just perusing some poems by Emily Dickinson. You know how much that cloistered repression gets me in the mood for righteous violence," Joker explained contently. She knew no such thing but felt too tired to question it.

"Did you remember to eat today?" she asked.

"I sure did. I had raccoon, living off the land now. Left you some on the stove if you want to heat it up," Joker stated proudly climbing out of the tub. That answered another question.

"Sun is going down. You better get ready," Harley said returning to put groceries away. A few minutes later there was a knock on the front door and it opened a few inches until the bags of trash and loose scrap metal jammed it. Robin stuck his head through to survey the problem then forced it with his shoulder.

"Come on, Harley," he called when he saw her in the kitchen, "Clean some of this crap up, will you?"

"Screw you, kid. I've been working all day. You try cleaning up after him!"

"I do…every night I have to train him," Robin retorted snidely.

"And how's that going?"

"Terrible. It's like training a lobotomized monkey."

"I heard that," Joker called from the bedroom. Harley watched incredulously as the kid raided the cupboards she just stocked.

"You got a special case first thing in the morning I need you to take," Robin mumbled through a mouthful of chips, "Already ordered Mr. Toad to cancel all your early appointments. It could take all day even."

"You can't do that!" she cried snatching the bag from his hand, "That's my clinic and I decide how scheduling will go."  
"It's too late this time. It's done."

"You think you know everything! Like whatever you're involved in is always the most important. These are people we're talking about and you use them like toy soldiers."

"You're right. I don't care. I brought you on to do a job and that's to keep those animals tame and under control," Robin replied.

"You're a monster," Harley declared but the boy didn't so much as flinch.

"I guess I'm in good company then. Tomorrow." When he turned to the door the anger washed from his face and he smiled broadly with his back to her.

"Let's go Fido," Robin called to his partner, "I'll take you to the dog park." Quickly Joker slid around the corner in his Batsuit.

"Can I drive the Batmobile tonight?" Joker asked adjusting the ill-fitting cowl.

"Not even a chance," Robin denied. Without another glance she let them go. After a quick bite of something other than raccoon she cleaned out the tub so she could shower. Amid crumpled newspapers she found the stack of documents Joker was reading. They looked like blueprints for some weird looking machine. Troubled she stared at them but in the end felt too tired to really care about his latest scheme.

Early the next morning Harley arrived at the office where Mr. Toad sat quietly behind the desk twiddling his webbed thumbs. He stared at her nervously as she approached the empty lobby but said nothing.

"Is my appointment late?" she asked calmly but Mr. Toad shook his head.

"Ee was 'ere when ah open'd 'er up. Sed ee'd wait in ah office tho' ah tol' im et wan'nt propah," he explained. Harley nodded and pulled some money from her purse.

"I want you to lock up and go down the street to the coffee shop. Get yourself some breakfast and something to drink while you wait for me. If I don't show up by noon call Lazlo," Harley commanded staring at her closed office door. Mr. Toad shook his head as if in pain.

"Ah ken't leave yuh missus. Wot eff 'ee 'urts yah? Ol' Missah Toad could'n live wit 'eeself." Silently Harley stared at him until he groaned and shuffled around the desk. She kissed him lightly on his warty cheek.

"I'll be okay. I promise," she assured but it didn't stop the tears in his eyes as he exited the office. She watched him go until he was safely out the door before turning to the unwanted task at hand. Opening her door Harley found Red Hood, the killer of her kind, standing next to her desk staring at her Batgirl costume still mounted on the wall.

"Good morning," she said flatly. The man turned to her with arms crossed and his face unreadable under the red mask.

"Good morning, doctor," he answered making his way to the couch and reclining comfortably. Caked in mud his boots left smears across the bottom of the couch.

"What are you doing here?" she asked not content to sit yet.

"The kid sent me to have a talk with you. I think he's afraid I'm going to wind up doing something bad."

"Are you?"

"I guess that depends on how well you do your job."

"We don't accept costumes. It detracts from the process. He should have told you that," Harley rebuked.

"Unless it's yours, huh?" he asked motioning toward the Batgirl suit.

"That's not my costume while I'm here."

"That's not your costume while you're anywhere," he replied slightly raising his voice. To her surprise he reached up and removed the mask revealing a shock of black hair and a chiseled, handsome face. Harley stared uncertain of the game they played.

"If it's that bad I can put it back on," he offered when she didn't speak but Harley shook her head and finally sat in her typical place.

"You don't look bad at all," she stated and he shrugged looking away out the window.

"Looks aren't everything," he warned quietly.

"What's your name?"  
"Jason." He answered after a pause. Harley folded her hands in her lap unwilling to take notes.

"And how have you been feeling, Jason?" she asked unconsciously falling back into her role.

"Unhappy, underappreciated."

"Are these feelings typical for you?"

"They're not unusual."

"What did your parents do growing up?" she changed subjects probing for a way to open him up.

"They died."

"I'm sorry to hear that," she sympathized.

"I'm not. If I grew up with them who knows what kind of scumbag junkie I'd be."

"As opposed to the man you are today?" she obviously insinuated.

"Be careful, Harley," Jason warned seriously though a smirk crossed his lips.

"He took you in then?" she asked ignoring his dodge.

"After Nightwing, yeah, but I think I scared him."

"Why would Batman be afraid of a little boy?"

"Maybe he saw a potential criminal he would probably have to knock out in five years time. Truth is I think Nightwing made him soft caring for such a good kid. He needed me to bring him back."

"Because you were a bad kid?" she finished for him.

"Because I was a little closer to reality…to that edge Nightwing pulled him back from."

"Did Nightwing make you feel unworthy following in his footsteps?"

"Sure but honestly who cares?"

"What do you mean?" Harley asked genuinely confused.

"What does it matter why we're broken? We are where we are and it's too late to change me. I didn't come here for your help and there's no amount of therapy that can save my soul," Jason explained curtly standing up off the couch.

"Then why are you here?" she asked nervously.

"I'm here for you. Sit down," Jason said softly motioning to her couch.

"Are you going to kill me?" she wondered but Jason laughed.

"No, the kid sent me to help you."

"Why would he send you?"

"Because I'm a fucking people person. Sit down," he spit in a tone that made it clear he was passed asking. Reluctantly she moved to the couch and felt amazed at the new perspective it gave of her office. She'd never seen the place from this position. Jason sat in her chair across from her and removed a recording device from his belt.

"I came to you to ask help for a friend," Jason began, "She's a good person deep down but she got mixed up with this guy she thinks she loves. He makes her do bad things and does horrible things to her. Can you help her?"

"I don't take those cases," Harley insisted anxiously, "I can give you a referral for her."

"A referral? This girl needs your help and you turn your back on her? After every serial killer and pederast that walks through those doors you turn her away?" he accused hostily.

"Don't do this Jason. Please don't."

"Don't what? Help someone who deserves it? What do I tell her, Harley?"

"I don't know!" she claimed but her eyes darted anywhere around the office but at him. Jason held up the recorder and she heard her own voice come out of it.

"They say don't go looking for yourself in your textbook because you'll find yourself in there," her echoed words from the session with Tallyman sent her reeling.

"You bugged my office!" she yelled in outrage.

"Where is she?" Jason pushed ignoring her anger, "What page is she on? Tell me!" Harley put her head between her hands.

"Page 277, anyone is susceptible to domestic abuse. Domestic abuse occurs when someone in a relationship attempts to manipulate or control the other person utilizing fear, intimidation, shame, or guilt. Abuse can range from physical to emotional to sexual and sufferers can experience domination, humiliation, denial, threats, isolation, and blame.

It falls into a cycle: abuse then guilt then excuses then normal behavior then fantasy then setup and back to abuse. I-I know what you're doing," Harley choked on the tears.

"No you don't. See I lied. She's not my friend. She's my girlfriend. She belongs to me and I'll never let her leave. I'll tell her she's worthless, crazy, and no one will ever want her." He laughed like a maniac.

"You can't! Don't-don't hurt her!" Tears poured down her face as Harley rocked on the couch.

"I'm going to beat the shit out of her just because I can. Because she's not strong enough to stop me," Jason promised.

"No!" Harley screamed. Leaping off the couch she pulled him out of the chair and slammed him onto the desk. In return Jason shoved her off back towards the couch.

"I made her! She's nothing without me!" Jason yelled back, "She'll always be a victim, and she'll always come crawling back because deep down she knows she's nothing!"

"You bastard!" She came on swinging wildly, "I won't let you do it again!" Jason fell against the desk again under a flurry of blows. Again and again she punched him across the face until blood poured from his nose and mouth.

"Never again! I'll die before I come back to you! You're sick and it's not funny! It's not funny anymore!" she mercilessly beat him until he could barely raise his arms to ward her off.

"Harley," he whispered through a broken face but she couldn't stop swinging. A dam had broken in her. A million cubic pounds of pressure came crashing out as the walls came down. Always the butt of the joke, always the punching bag, Harley would never again be the overlooked victim. Only now it was Jason's life at risk as her incredible strength was a funeral bell ringing his skull.

For a moment he almost let go like he had so long ago. Drifting away he remembered his own destruction and he came back in a rush. The drive pushing Jason Todd wasn't an all encompassing wave like hers built by years of hate and self-denial. It was a single concentrated beam that could melt through anything. Through the haze of pain and fear at the end of that beam sat the man who wrecked them both.

It was an unalterable path he walked towards the end of the world. Below her gnashing teeth he knew he couldn't die again, not yet. Running his hand over the desk he felt the recorder he dropped and flipped it on. A calm, sweet, reassuring voice filled the office. Dr. Harleen Quinzel consoled the weary, repentant souls from the exitless maze in their minds. She was a person who cared endlessly and couldn't believe anyone stayed lost forever. Instantly Harley froze and listened to the love she refused to accept herself.

"You're a stronger person that you give yourself credit for-"

"That's nothing to be ashamed of-"

"Does it consistently keep you from happiness and living life in the way you want?"

"We can't just give up."

"What happened to you was terrible. I'm sorry-" Harley fell to her knees and bawled like a newborn plucked from the only home she ever knew. Coughing up blood Jason rolled over gasping. Quite a few minutes passed before Harley composed herself enough to realize just how much she hurt him.

"Oh God, Jason!" she cried helping him to the chair.

"S'okay," he slurred through already swollen face and lips, "you jus'…haf to leaf him."

"I will. I swear I will," she repeated dabbing the blood from his broken face with her doctor's coat, "but why did you do it? I could have killed you."

"Wasn't me. It was…the kid. He…wants to save you, Harley. The whole clinic idea was for you…to have a chance to get out of that hell and to bring anyone else you can out of the darkness with you," Jason explained.

"Robin planned this whole thing and sent you? Why you?"

"Probably because he didn't want to get his ass kicked. That and he wanted to give me hope. I think he wanted me to see you free and believe I could come back too. He's smarter than anyone ever imagined and he schemes like one of you. Imagine where you were as a kid at his age, living a normal life in school, me running the streets stealing hubcaps off Batmobiles. He was a trained killer before he was ten.

The League of Assassins taught him strategy and manipulation. Then Batman taught him our ways which only took a handful of years to master. Now he leads every villain in Gotham to a war of his own making. He scares the shit out of me. I don't know what he's becoming anymore, Harley."

In troubled silence they sat thinking about the webs woven by the son of the Bat and grandson of the Demon wondering how many were traps and how many were safety nets.


End file.
